


how to make my own life here (how to make my own home)

by brahe



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Photographs, Photography, its Big Soft yall, that's pretty much it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 01:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18228353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brahe/pseuds/brahe
Summary: Roger looks over at him at the sound of the shutter, and he raises an eyebrow. “What’re you doing?”Brian comes into the kitchen. “Good lighting,” he says, tilting his head a little. He rolls the film and brings the camera up again, Roger’s gentle smile greeting him in the viewfinder.“If I knew you wanted me to model, I would’ve worn something better,” Roger tells him, and Brian lowers the camera enough that he can look at Roger over the top of it.He shakes his head. “No, it’s –” He bites his tongue on the first things he thinks, and settles on something close enough to the whole truth. “It’s part of the look. It’s all very soft,” Brian says, and Roger laughs.“If you say so,” he agrees, and Brian takes another picture, captures the ghost of Roger’s laughter and the smile that remains.





	how to make my own life here (how to make my own home)

**Author's Note:**

> i have nothing to say abt this except i have no clue where tf it came from but here we are
> 
> this was supposed to be part of a series of scenes about them living together and eventually getting together, and maybe that'll still happen, but then it turned into some kind of 8 page soft fluff monster about taking pictures of each other w no redeeming plot value whatsoever so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> title from mother & father by broods

The flat is quiet when Brian wakes, the usual sounds of the birds outside and the AC unit filling the background as he rolls over with a deep sigh, blinking his eyes open. Roger’s still asleep across the room, his mussed hair the only thing visible. It’s early, just after sunrise, he guesses, and the sun seeping through the window is pleasantly warm against Brian’s face. He lets his eyes close again, sinking a little further into the bed, immensely comfortable and with nowhere to be.

 

When he wakes again, the sunlight is still mid-morning golden, still warm. He’s alone in the room, now, and he stretches out, letting out a low groan as his joints pop. The carpet is soft under his feet when he stands, and he rubs a hand over his face as he leaves the room, runs the other through his curls, shaking them out a bit. 

 

He spots Roger in the kitchen from the hallway, and he nearly stumbles to a stop at the sight, heart lurching in his chest and feet suddenly clumsy. Roger’s leaning against the counter with his hands curled around a coffee mug, looking out across the flat to the living room window, white shirt coming halfway down his thighs and nearly falling off one shoulder. His hair is rimmed in gold, glowing, backlit from the sunlight coming through the kitchen window. He looks ethereal, Brian thinks, soft and angelic in his too-big sleepshirt and socks at two different heights. Brian is suddenly, viscerally gripped by the desire to kiss him, to run his hands through that golden hair, to settle him on the countertop and push his shirt up enough to get his fingers on soft, sleep-warm skin. 

 

And he realizes, then, all at once like an exhale, that he’s in love with him.

 

He stays in the hallway, barely breathing, as he waits for the rest of it come – the panic, the fear, the usual – but nothing happens. His heart is beating, the planet is spinning, Roger is breathtaking, and Brian’s in love. It’s a powerful, overwhelmingly simple truth, and a part of him wonders how he’s never noticed until now. This revelation is simply a waking up to something that’s been there, for – for how long, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever know exactly when he fell in love; he doubts it was just one moment, but instead a gradual, sliding series of moments, things stacking on top of each other and leading to here, now, with Roger glowing in the morning sun and looking like everything Brian’s ever wanted. 

 

When he shuffles into the kitchen, Roger blinks, coming out of his head, and turns to Brian with a smile, soft and brilliant and beautiful. Brian feels his heart stutter – he’s always thought Roger’s smiles were stunning, so full of light and happiness, crinkling his eyes in the corners – and he sinks a little more into being in love with him. 

“I made you a cup of coffee,” Roger tells him. “I’ve only been up for ten or fifteen minutes, so it should still be hot.” He grabs the cup that’d been on the counter beside him, holding it out for Brian. 

He takes the mug, and when he takes a sip, it’s the perfect temperature to drink. It’s also exactly how he likes it – just the right amount of cream and sugar. 

“Thanks,” he says, offering Roger a small smile over the rim of the mug. He settles against the counter next to Roger, tries to not make it obvious how he can’t take his eyes off him. The silence is comfortable, soft and unrushed, and Brian relishes in it, wanting to hold onto it. He wishes he had his camera handy; he’d like a picture of Roger like this, in this moment. Actually –

“Wait here,” he tells Roger, setting his mug on the counter. “Don’t move.”

“Okay,” Roger agrees with a soft laugh. “I wasn’t planning on it, anyway.”

Brian’s camera is on his desk in his room, and he checks to make sure the film is in and loaded properly before heading back to the kitchen. He pauses in the hallway where he’d had his realization earlier to take a picture, the scene nearly exactly the same as it had been.

Roger looks over at him at the sound of the shutter, and he raises an eyebrow. “What’re you doing?”

Brian comes into the kitchen. “Good lighting,” he says, tilting his head a little. He rolls the film and brings the camera up again, Roger’s gentle smile greeting him in the viewfinder.

“If I knew you wanted me to model, I would’ve worn something better,” Roger tells him, and Brian lowers the camera enough that he can look at Roger over the top of it.

He shakes his head. “No, it’s –” He bites his tongue on the first things he thinks, and settles on something close enough to the whole truth. “It’s part of the look. It’s all very soft,” Brian tells him, and Roger laughs.

“If you say so,” he agrees, and Brian takes another picture, captures the ghost of Roger’s laughter and the smile that remains. He rolls the film again and zooms in for the next one, a nicely framed shot of Roger’s head and shoulders, half his face thrown into shadow from the sun behind him, the other half glowing.

Roger tugs his shirt collar up, settling it so it sits around his forehead, just under his hair. It looks ridiculous, and Brian's laughing when he takes the picture, Roger's own slightly muffled through the shirt.

“That's a new pose,” Brian says, and he's only partially prepared for the force of Roger's smile and the sparkle in his eyes when he pulls the shirt back down to his shoulders. Brian squints a little at him. “Wait, is that mine?”

Roger shrugs from behind his coffee mug, using the cup to hide his grin, and that's answer enough for Brian.

“When did you even take that?”

“A…a while ago,” Roger admits. “Before we lived together.” His cheeks are flushed with the statement, and Brian wonders if it's embarrassment or something else. “Sorry?” he says, but it comes out more like a question. 

“No, it's fine,” Brian tells him, shaking his head. “I didn't even realize it was missing.”

They're quiet for a moment after that, Brian trading the camera for his coffee and taking a sip.

“What do you do with all these pictures you take?” Roger asks him, after a while, and Brian shrugs. 

“Keep them, I guess. I don’t really have any goal in mind. I just like to have them to look back on.” He shrugs, looks from out the window and back to Roger, who’s still got a soft, open expression on his face.

“Can I take a couple?” Roger asks, gesturing to the camera, and Brian waves his hand.

“Go ahead,” he agrees, leaning back against the counter as Roger steps away. “Make sure you roll the film over.”

He watches Roger’s hands as he fidgets with the camera, listens to the  _ shnick-shnick-shnick  _ of the film rolling. Brian’s gaze follows as Roger brings the camera to his eye, and he doesn’t have time to make a face before the shutter goes. 

“Do something funny,” Roger tells him, and Brian shakes his head.

“Like what? I’m not very funny,” he says, but he sticks his tongue out right before he hears the shutter again.

Roger’s still looking at him through the viewfinder, and Brian cracks a grin. “Are you sure you’re getting me in the frame from down there?” he asks, and it gets the desired reaction. Roger lowers the camera to give Brian a shocked, offended expression, and he hits the back of his free hand against Brian’s chest.

“These are gonna look  _ great _ , thank you very much!” Roger tells him. Brian shrugs, failing spectacularly at hiding his grin.

“You sure?” he asks. “You don’t need a stool or anything?”

Roger gives him an offended  _ hey! _ before determination settles into his features. “You know what?” he says, and Brian only has time to choke on a laugh as Roger turns, clamoring up onto the countertop, his head nearly touching the ceiling, the camera held in his hand. “How’s this?”

Brian barely hears the shutter over his laughter, and he can only imagine how ridiculous that photograph will look.

“Here, give me the camera,” he says, holding his hand up towards Roger’s head once he’s got himself back under control. Roger looks at him skeptically, and Brian ducks his head a little, shaking his outstretched hand. “Come on.”

Roger passes the camera down to him, and Brian rolls the film as he backs up enough to get all of Roger and the counter into the frame. “Say cheese,” he says, and takes a picture as Roger strikes a pose. 

“Be careful,” Brian tells him, and he gets a shot of Roger flicking him off in response.

There's a moment where they're still, watching each other, and then Roger's waving his hands at his sides.

“Help me down,” Roger says, “I wanna try something.”

Brian puts the camera down on the opposite counter before coming over to Roger. He's not entirely sure what he's supposed to do to help, but Roger bends down, settling his palms wide on Brian's shoulders, curling his fingers over. Brian brings his own hands to Roger's waist, and it's a combination of Roger jumping and Brian lifting before Roger's feet are back firmly on the ground. Brian's hands linger at his waist as Roger slides his down Brian's arms, gaze following the movement of his right hand before looking up at Brian with a smile when his hands reach Brian's wrists.

“Stay there,” Roger says, reaching over for the camera and dislodging Brian's hands in the process. He rolls the film and turns around, pressing back into the left side of Brian's body.

“Smile!” Roger tells him, holding the camera up to them, lens facing them, attempting to get both of them in the frame. Brian doubts it'll have worked, but he can't help the smile he aims down at Roger when he steps forward a little, looking at the camera in his hands.

“I wish we didn't have to wait for it to be developed,” Roger tells him, and Brian laughs, soft.

“I can get my polaroid, if you like,” he offers, and Roger turns to him, expression as bright as the sun.

“Yeah?” Roger asks, then frowns a little. “I don't wanna use up all your film.”

“It's meant to be used,” Brian says with a shrug. 

He takes the film camera from Roger, sticking in its case that he keeps by the coat rack by the door. “I'll take it to get developed the next time I go to the store.”

  
  


Roger follows him to the bedroom this time. When Brian gives him a look, he shrugs with a smile.

“You didn't say to stay put this time,” he says, and Brian shakes his head, although he's smiling, too.

Roger immediately climbs onto Brian's bed, folding his legs criss cross at the foot of it as he watches Brian. The Polaroid is on the shelf, next to where he usually keeps his film camera. He's got an old Brownie from his dad on the shelf, there, too, though he doesn't use it.

Brian loads a couple film cards into the camera, checking the settings before turning to Roger. He takes a picture to test it out – it doesn't hurt that Roger looks ridiculously kissable on the foot of Brian's bed, hair falling into his face as he leans forward, his hands twisted into his t-shirt. Brian takes the print, shaking it as he hands the camera over to Roger. “Knock yourself out,” he says, and Roger takes it carefully.

“I wanna see,” he says, leaning forward further, and Brian offers him the print, the image only half-developed so far. He gives Brian a grin when he hands the print back. “I'm cute,” he tells him with a laugh.

“You’re definitely something,” Brian agrees, and he laughs when Roger scoffs at him. 

 

Roger takes a picture of Brian shaking his print, and then he's reaching for Brian, wrapping a hand around his forearm and tugging him onto the bed. Brian lands beside Roger, and Roger ends up half on top of him.

“Round two,” Roger says, and he holds the polaroid up lens-forward again, presses his face against Brian's, and takes the picture. He passes the camera to Brian when he takes the print, shaking it and nearly shaking himself, giddy. He checks it every three seconds, until the image is finally clear.

“It worked!” he exclaims, half-laying on top of Brian to show him the photograph, which ends with Brian falling back against the mattress and Roger coming down with him. Brian takes the picture, both of their faces surprisingly well in frame.

“That's a good one, actually,” he tells Roger, who's grinning even when he hits Brian's chest.

“What d’you mean,  _ actually _ ?” he says. “Of course it's a good one!”

Brian hands the picture back, his arm falling around Roger and his hand settling lightly on his hip as Roger shifts, the back of his head resting on Brian's shoulder. He looks at the picture over Roger's head, and he doesn't notice how he starts to rub his thumb against Roger's hip.

“I'm gonna put it on the fridge,” Roger tells him, but makes no move to get up.

“I'd like that,” Brian agrees, also making no effort to move, and they end up falling asleep like that, the sun shifting to afternoon high outside and their polaroid resting on Roger's chest. 

 

\--

 

Brian’s always looked forward to getting his photos back from development, but he’s unusually excited for these. It probably has something to do with the way Roger’s been asking about them almost nonstop, wanting to see his own work.

 

Brian opens the envelope in the back of the cab, pulling out the pictures. The first one that greets him is the one of Roger from the hallway, and looking at it takes Brian back to his moment of realization, brings up the soft feelings of being completely in love that morning had given him.

The next two are similar in the way they make Brian feel – he’s infinitely glad he’d gone to get his camera, because these pictures are his favorite he’s ever taken. He’s never been able to sink back into a memory like he can when looking at this set. 

The last one is more stylized than Brian usually shoots, given the dramatic lighting from the backlit sun, but it’s a beautiful photograph. There’s a look on Roger’s face in this one, different from the soft, distant look in the first and the open and humored look from the second; it looks like affection, but Brian shakes his head of the thought before it can go any further.

 

He moves on through the set, and stops on the first of the set Roger had taken, his breath catching at his own face looking back at him. He’s never seen himself look like this, his curls big and messy in a way that’s surprisingly tasteful, and he thinks of his eyes as pretty for the first time in his life. But the most striking thing about it is his expression – it’s  _ love _ , open and honest and consuming, obvious in the lines on his face, in the light in his eyes. He’s got slight crow’s feet, and his skin has a healthy kind of color to it from the sunlight, and there’s no possible way to see his expression as anything besides a man looking at the object of his adoration.

There’s a long moment where he debates hiding it from Roger, keeping it to himself and making something up about it being missing if Roger asks about it; but it’s a beautiful picture, objectively speaking, and he doesn’t want to keep such a composition from Roger, even if it exposes him so clearly. And, he thinks, maybe there’s a part of him that wants to tell Roger, wants to know if his feelings are returned, and this could be his way of doing it.

 

He looks through the rest of them, a gentle smile on his face, and he laughs at the one of Roger standing on the counter. The one of the both of them hadn't turned out horribly, even though only the top half of Roger's face is in frame and the left side of Brian's face is cut off, and he resolves to put it on the fridge next to the polaroid. 

 

He carefully puts the photos back in the envelope as the cab pulls up outside their apartment, and he’s forgotten about that first picture of him by the time he enters the apartment to find Roger struggling to make pasta, the water nearly boiling over the top of the pot and an open box of pasta clutched in Roger's hand.

“Thank god,” Roger says when the door closes behind Brian. “Please help, I don't know what I'm doing.”

“With  _ pasta _ ?” Brian asks from the doorway, shucking his jacket before he moves into the kitchen to save Roger's dinner plans. 

 

\--

 

They’re sitting at the dining table, Roger’s salvaged pasta in a bowl between them, meal just finished when Roger wiggles excitedly in his seat.

“So? Did you get the pictures?”

Brian laughs, surprised Roger made it this long before asking about them. “Yeah, I got ‘em. Gimme a second.”

He gets up from the table to retrieve the envelope from his jacket pocket, handing it to Roger as he returns to his seat across from him. 

He’s just settled by the time Roger’s got the photos out of the envelope, and he watches as Roger's face softens. His eyes are wide when he looks up at Brian.

“Bri, this is…this is incredible,” he says, looking at that first photograph Brian took of him from the hallway. “I'm not just saying that ‘cause I'm in it,” he says, half a laugh following the statement, and Brian shrugs. “Seriously, you've got a knack for this.”

Roger's awed expression lingers as he goes through the next few, chuckling at the one where he'd pulled the collar of his shirt up to his hairline. 

 

He goes silent when he turns to the next picture, and Brian belatedly remembers the first one Roger had taken of him. 

“Wow,” he says, quiet.

“It's a great picture, Rog.”

Roger shakes his head a little, still staring down at the photo. “It's weird, like this.”

“What's weird, my face?”

“Yeah,” Roger agrees, then jerks up to look at Brian, shaking his head. “No! I mean, your expression.”

Brian tenses, keeps his voice as neutral as he can make it. “What about it?”

Roger looks down at the picture again, tilting his head. “Well, it's just – you get this look on your face, sometimes, when we're together and it's quiet and we've got nowhere to be, no responsibilities. It's how I know you're happy,” Roger tells him, “ _ truly,  _ really happy, when you look like that. I'm always – I'm always real proud of myself when I can get you to look at me like that,” he admits. He waves the picture around a little. “But looking at it here, still-framed, I don't…it looks almost –” Roger shakes his head, dropping his wrist back on the table. “No – nevermind.”

Brian leans back in his chair, looks up at the ceiling. “It looks almost like love,” he says, a little surprised at the easy way the words come out, and he only looks to Roger when he hears the man's breathing change into something quicker, sharper.

Roger's nodding, looking right at him, now, the full force and focus of those beautiful, beautiful afternoon blue eyes on Brian. “Yeah,” he agrees, barely louder than a whisper. “Yeah, it looks almost like love.”

Brian stares back, half determined and half lost in Roger's eyes. “Maybe it is,” he says, and he doesn't know if he has the right words to describe the way Roger's expression simultaneously darkens and –  _ sparkles _ . 

Roger sets the picture down, says, “I certainly hope so.” He leans halfway across the table before he continues, filling Brian's field of view almost entirely. “‘Cause that look on  _ my  _ face? In the third one? That looks almost like love, too.”

 

Brian surges forward, then, hands coming to the sides of Roger's face as he kisses him, a hard, intense, almost desperate press of lips – and then just as quickly, he's pulling away, standing up and away from the table.

 

Only Roger's suddenly there in front of him, fingers wrapping around Brian's wrist and pulling his hand away from his face. “Ah, ah, don't be disappearing into your head after all that,” he says, voice soft and low and rough. Brian's shaking his head.

“I shouldn't have – I –”

“Bri, Brian, listen to me,” Roger says, talking over Brian until he stops. His hands are unfamiliar on the sides of Brian's face – callouses in places different from Brian's own, his palms smaller – but comforting, the feeling of his thumbs running back and forth on Brian's cheekbones hypnotic, addicting.

“I just admitted that I'm in love with you, basically” Roger tells him. “Why shouldn't you kiss me?” He's looking between each of Brian's eyes, gaze flickering, and his face is so open, expression soft, patient. “I'm rather glad you did, to be honest.”

And then Roger's the one kissing him this time, pressed up on his toes, leaning some of his weight into Brian, their chests together with only Roger's hands between them, lightly curled into the fabric of Brian's shirt. It's slow and so gentle Brian could cry with it, something vice-like twisting around his heart, tightening until he pulls away enough to breathe, sharp, panting breaths, and he doesn't even realize he's started to cry until he feels Roger's hands back on his face, wiping away the tears.

“Why are you crying?” Roger asks him, keeping his voice quiet, moving one hand to push at Brian's hair, fingers tangled in his curls, tucking a piece behind his ear.

Brian shakes his head, careful not to dislodge either of Roger's hands. “I don't – I don't know,” he admits with a half-choked laugh. He brings one hand up to curl around the one Roger's got on his face, pressing his palm to the back of Roger's hand and threading their fingers together. “I'm not sad, it's…I'm happy,  _ god _ , I'm so happy, I'm so in love with you,” Brian tells him, his laugh this time full but quiet, wet. “Christ, I'm so helplessly in love with you.”

Roger's smile is in the way when he surges up to kiss Brian again, and it dissolves into a bought of soft, happy laughter from the both of them, before they're kissing again. Brian hums, eyes falling shut, and his hands settle on Roger's waist, nearly big enough to wrap completely around each of his hips. Roger makes a soft noise when Brian presses back, and he tugs on Brian's shirt until he stumbles forward, a series of kisses interrupting their walk to Brian's bedroom.

  
  


They tumble onto the bed, and Brian sits back, takes in Roger with his blue eyes dark, pupils blown, that sunlight blonde hair sprawled on the sheets, his lips bright red, and he has an idea.

“Don’t move,” Brian tells Roger, and he shifts to reach the desk at the end of his bed, coming back with the film camera. He takes a picture of Roger from sitting over him, grinning, and he takes another when Roger's expression shifts from humor back to what it had been, lust and love and affection, already looking entirely debauched.

Roger reaches for the camera when Brian lowers it, and he hears the shutter twice. “These are just for me,” Roger tells him, holding the camera to the side as he twists his other hand in Brian's shirt to pull him down into another kiss that turns into another, and another.

And then he's pushing at Brian's shoulder until Brian gets off him, laying back against the bed as Roger climbs into his lap. Roger takes another picture of Brian like this, and then takes another of Brian's face after he rolls his hips down, hard.

“F- _ fuck _ ,” Brian breathes, hands coming to Roger's waist. That picture must look downright sinful. 

Roger's grin is wicked when he lowers the camera to his chest, and Brian bites back a groan. Roger rolls his hips again, making Brian tightens his grip on him, and then he leans down, entire body pressed against Brian as he kisses him, deep and dirty and so, so good. He trails away from Brian's mouth, along his jaw, and he nips at the skin just under Brian's ear. 

 

“How much film do you have?”


End file.
